"
He gave a sigh with the words, and a pause followed.
"The trowth's the trowth," resumed Miss Horn, "neither mair nor
less."
"Ay," responded Malcolm; "but there's a richt an' a wrang time for
the telling' o' 't. It's no as gien I had had han' or tongue in
ony foregane lee. It was naething o' my duin', as ye ken, mem. To
mysel', I was never onything but a fisherman born. I confess 'at
whiles, when we wad be lyin' i' the lee o' the nets, tethered to
them like, wi' the win' blawin' strong 'an steady, I ha'e thocht
wi' mysel' 'at I kent naething aboot my father, an' what gien it
sud turn oot 'at I was the son o' somebody--what wad I du wi' my
siller?"
"An' what thoucht ye ye wad du, laddie?" asked Miss Horn gently.
"What but bigg a harbour at Scaurnose for the puir fisher fowk 'at
was like my ain flesh and blude!"
"Weel," rejoined Miss Horn eagerly, "div ye no look upo' that as a
voo to the Almichty--a voo 'at ye're bun' to pay, noo 'at ye ha'e
yer wuss? An' it's no merely 'at ye ha'e the means, but there's no
anither that has the richt; for they're yer ain fowk, 'at ye gaither
rent frae, an 'at's been for mony a generation sattlet upo' yer
lan'--though for the maitter o' the lan', they ha'e had little
mair o' that than the birds o' the rock ha'e ohn feued--an' them
honest fowks wi' wives an' sowls o' their ain! Hoo upo' airth are
ye to du yer duty by them, an' render yer accoont at the last,
gien ye dinna tak till ye yer pooer an' reign? Ilk man 'at 's in
ony sense a king o' men is bun' to reign ower them in that sense.
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